


The Lilies of the Field

by bemusedlybespectacled (ardentintoxication)



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst and Humor, F/M, Humor, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Shopping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 20:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/385797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ardentintoxication/pseuds/bemusedlybespectacled
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Effie takes Haymitch shopping. He doesn't enjoy it in the slightest.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lilies of the Field

**Author's Note:**

  * For [grimgrinninggirl](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=grimgrinninggirl).



_Sometimes he dreams of sunlight._

_Sometimes he dreams about the pure poison lakes and the candy-colored birds and the horrific sight of sunlight and a woman’s high-pitched voice cheerily calling his name._

_Wait a second._

_No, he doesn’t._

Haymitch is awake in one second. He has the intruder in a hammerlock with his knife at their throat in two seconds. It takes him a good ten to realize that this isn’t the arena, he’s not holding a Peacekeeper, and he isn’t in any danger.

Well, it’s  _Effie fucking Trinket_ , so maybe he is.

He steps away from her, shaking hard, and reaches for the bottle he keeps on his bedside table. Or rather, the bottle that  _was_  on his bedside table, because it certainly isn’t there anymore. He looks around. No bottle. He turns to see  _Effie fucking Trinket_  swishing away on her green heels with her green wig perched precariously on her head and  _his bottle_ in  _her_ hand. She calmly pours all of it down the kitchen sink - and fuck her, that’s fucking expensive liquor right there - and smiles cheerfully. He could cheerfully strangle her.

“Come on, Haymitch! It’s ten days before Reaping Day and you have to look presentable and you know you can’t wear that absolutely disgusting suit I think you actually spilled something on it look it has a stain on it this is unacceptable as the only mentor from District 12 you have a…”

Haymitch is really only understanding about one word in ten here, down from his usual one in five due to his migraine. He gets the sense that he’s supposed to get a new suit. He finds this idea utterly baffling, as he does not want one, nor does he need one. And even if he did, he would certainly not go suit-shopping with Effie. Fucking. Trinket.

“No.”

She stops prattling and blinks. “What?”

“I said ‘no.’”

Apparently it has never occurred to Effie that some people don’t like shopping. “Whyever not?”

Haymitch rolls his eyes. “I have a headache, alright? I have a headache and I don’t like being woken up by brightly-colored fussbudgets and I don’t like  _you!_ ” He stomps back toward his room, intending to get some sleep before going out and buying more liquor from Greasy Sae.

Effie grabs his arm and positions her arms around it so that he’ll have to pry her off him to make her let go. “Now, now, we have to make a good impression for the Gamemakers, don’t we?” This is something he can’t argue with. It’s true, Gamemakers do care about the Mentors, because their interviews happen during the Games themselves. Not that Haymitch cares, considering his current streak of perfect failures. He’s probably not going to have a chance to get interviewed unless they want him to comment on the deaths, which doesn’t require a new suit.

He hasn’t talked back for several seconds, and Effie takes this as a sign to continue. “And I’m sure the train has plenty of meds perfect for your headache - which I’m sure is a hangover,” she adds, “and you’ll be back in five days. You won’t even have to stay overnight.”

He quietly resents the fact that her room is across the hall from his during the Games and she therefore knows how bad his nightmares are in the Capitol. He refuses to acknowledge the fact that she remembers and is trying to be nice, in her way.

He considers making a run for the door.

Effie sighs. “And if I replace that disgusting excuse for alcohol?”

Haymitch wrenches free of her hold. “Let me get my coat.”

* * *

_Sometimes he dreams about coming home._

_Sometimes he dreams about the Donners, and how Mona had looked at him like he was had killed Maysilee himself, like he should have died instead._

_And the worst parts of his dreams is where he knows that she’s right._

He wakes up in his train car, which smells like roses and strawberries and sweat. The Capitol’s hangover cure did the job it was made for, but had the unfortunate side effect of draining his entire body of alcohol and getting rid of it via vomit. Haymitch has spent the entire night detoxing and is not ready for today.

There is a knock on his door.

“Come along, Haymitch!” Effie chirps. “If you want to finish shopping in time for the next train back, you need to get started!”

He gets dressed, goes down to the train car with different kinds muffins and fifteen flavors of coffee creamer and assorted frosted donuts, and sinks heavily into a chair.

“Now, I know we’re not supposed to discuss anything regarding strategy yet,” says Effie, “but I should let you know that Fuschia Mozambique has just lost her position as stylist, so we’re getting a new one this year - he’s very  _in_  right now, we’re  _very_  lucky to get him, even if he is very unorthodox - and the Corianders have just moved to cheaper housing, so don’t expect sponsorship from them this year…”

He lets her voice with it’s stupid Capitol accent keep him grounded as he carefully nibbles a fruit tart and tries not to throw up again.

* * *

The train station is crowded and already packed with people, despite the fact that the Games are another eight days away. Life as a hermit in District 12 is peaceful, and the train luckily had only Effie and a few select Peacekeepers that stayed in their cabins most of the time. This is different.

A woman, her dress a dizzying mix of yellow and purple, is curled up on the floor, screaming that she didn’t get the spot she wanted in order to see the Tributes.

A man with mirrors embedded like scales in his skin (including at least one implanted in the white of his eye) is arguing with one of the conductors, insisting that he needs his ticket to the 67th Arena  _now_ , so that he can get back in time for the latest games.

This room is full of people and colors and sounds and smells and it’s too much, too  _much_ –

–and Effie is holding his arm like it was his idea and guiding him toward the door.

For some reason, he doesn’t mind.

He breathes a sigh of relief as they make their way to one of the Capitol’s enormous shopping centers. It is fifteen stories high and made entirely of glass and steel, the floors deceptively strong. Everything is bright and cool inside, and though he’s a bit spooked by the clear floors and ceilings (and the lazy, fluffy, white clouds, drifting menacingly overhead), it’s quieter.

“Now, are you going to behave yourself?” Effie asks him.

“I don’t make any promises, sweetheart,” he replies.

She directs him to several stores, realizes that he has no idea what to look for, and goes with him to each of them, forcing him to try on at least one outfit from each store. He rejects the suits in bright pink, orange, and magenta, ignores the green one with the fluffy cravat and the electric blue one with the feathers, and refuses to even look at the white suit with several splashes of red in the vague shape of roses.

“ _Simple_ , woman! There is nothing wrong with  _simple!_ ”

“‘Simple’ isn’t fashionable, Haymitch!”

“I couldn’t give fewer fucks about what’s  _fashionable_  or not.”

“Do you want to make a good impression?”

“I want to make it without looking like a goddamn peacock on morphling!”

Effie huffs away in disgust, and Haymitch follows behind her. The last thing he needs is to get lost in here.

She finally leads him to a gentlemen’s outfitter who apparently has the smallest niche customer base in the entirety of Panem - Capitol men who like style, not fashion, and know the difference between the two. Carefully, she selects a suit in navy blue and hands it to him. A peace offering.

Haymitch takes it gratefully.

She pushes him gently to a fitting room and sits outside, primly, resolutely staring in the other direction as he tries it on.

“Well?” he asks when he emerges. “This acceptable?”

She smiles. Something in her face makes her look almost appreciative. “It looks well on you.” She goes over to another rack and pulls out a different suit, this one with a dark brown jacket and khaki pants. “Try on this one.”

He ends up buying the blue suit, the dark brown one, and a purple one, as well as several waistcoats, ties, and shirts in different colors.

“If you’re not going to be fashionable,” says Effie, passing each one through a slot in the translucent changing room door, “you can at least be presentable.”

“Like I said,” says Haymitch, resisting the urge to let the door mysteriously malfunction and open at an inopportune moment just to see her face, “I make no promises.”

* * *

On the train back, he doesn’t dream at all, except for one dream involving brightly-colored fabrics being strewn about in the cramped changing area space and creative uses for mirrors. He wakes up the next morning with sheets that embarrass him and thoughts he resolves to get rid of once he opens his new bottle of alcohol.

He refuses to think about anything much for another five days.


End file.
